You Think You Know (1/?)

Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None as yet
Rating: PG for darkness.
Warning: Big on the psych!angst. Also, very much a WiP. Really more of a Wi-halted-P. I haven't abandoned it, but it is indefinitely postponed.
Summary: Post-war, Draco POV.
Disclaimer: Not mine. (Is anything ever?)
Beta: The wonderful aforementioned S. Thankyou so much.
Feedback: Always welcome. Make it as harshly critical as you can. And if anybody knows of a good community/list to post this on, please let me know.
Notes: Someone has just posted a LotRips fic by the same title, but I swear, this has been sitting on my hardrive with this label for almost as long as this blog has been running. It is, of course, part of a buffy quote, and there's a shiny nickle in it for anybody that can tell me which.

2nd June 1998

Dumbledore came to see me today. Apparently I'm to be taken in by a wizarding family he's found for me. I wasn't really paying attention. St. Mungo's is overrun after the attack, so I suppose they're trying to clear as much space as possible. As I wasn't really injured in any way, it's simply been a matter of finding somewhere to put me until they can arrange a trial. Assuming I'm to be given a trial. Father always said if they had any sense or backbone they wouldn't bother. That's probably why it has to be a wizarding family, though, to make sure I don't try to escape. Anywhere else and it wouldn't be intimate enough to keep track of me. The aurors are busy counting their own, and dealing with the more serious death eaters to bother with a minor. I think this is probably a good thing for me, as they would want to question me, which I can't imagine would be pleasant. After that, I suppose I'd get the Kiss, so at least this way I have a little time to decide how to deal with the situation. It's just putting off the inevitable, I know, but I can't help but be a little grateful. I need to make sure I behave as Father would have wanted, but it is rather hard to figure out. He would probably be rather insulted that I have so far been overlooked, or that I am not considered enough of a threat to warrant heavier surveillance. On the other hand, he would want me to take advantage of the situation, of their innocent assumptions of my capabilities and intentions, so perhaps he too would appreciate their misjudgement.

Is it truly misjudgement? Do I really intend to break free? Is it even possible? Should I simply resign myself to my fate with dignity? I don't think Father would have approved of that. But what hope is there in escape? The Dark Lord is gone; they say this time for good. They said that last time too, but Father stayed loyal, and was rewarded. But I have no idea where I would go, where I could start. To hunt Him down, to stay in service to Him, to help raise Him to power a third time. I get the feeling it would be a rather pathetic form of desperation and denial of the true situation to attempt these things. I am alone. Even Father did not hunt down the Dark Lord, but waited to be called back to Him. There aren't even any other death eaters on the outside either. They say they got them all this time and Father always said that if they got this many it would be over for quite some time. According to Father, most will get the Kiss, as they can't possibly have enough resources to send them all to Azkaban.

But what hope in aforementioned resignation to fate? I'll get the Kiss, and it will be over completely and utterly. I haven't even produced an heir yet. The Malfoy name will die with me. Father always said that was one of my principle duties as a Malfoy, to carry on the line, to ensure our position in the future would be secure. To accept my death is to take responsibility for ending over a millennium of family history. Father would be furious. Maybe I should escape in a last attempt to get laid, but for some reason that sounds even more pathetic than attempting to escape in order to resurrect a Dark Lord whose fall is still only very recent. It'd probably be a far more reliable plan to escape and donate to a sperm bank. I don't think Father would like that idea much, though, as then I might end up fathering some half-Mudblood brat.

I don't know what to do. There's no one here to tell me what I should do; they're all gone. All of them. I don't think anybody really anticipated anything quite like this.

***

3rd June 1998

The nurse brought me some clean clothes this morning. They are not nearly as nice as the ones I was wearing, but they are at least in one piece, and lacking any serious burn marks. I miss the slightly greasy feel of dark magic that clung to my previous robes, however. It was comforting and familiar, but it was mainly just reassuring as a reminder of who I am. I can still be me, do, say, and think the right things if I can remember who I am, but I'm finding it increasingly more difficult as I have to internalise more and more of that. Father would be furious if he knew I was allowing something as simple as clothing to be a weakness; that I was allowing a change of clothing to undermine my definition of self. I'm not really; it's not that serious. It's just one of those little things that bites and galls. So much happened to me, was taught to me, involving dark magic, it was reassuring to have the stench of that in evidence on me. It is a key part of who I am a fundamental part of any Malfoy.

It worries me that I won't be around to teach all this to any children I might have, that might even be worse than not having any children at all. Father would be furious if I allowed a Malfoy to come into existence, and yet not be a true Malfoy, never to know it means to be a Malfoy. Maybe Father would laugh at that. Malfoy is in my blood, would be in the blood of any child of mine, and that is inescapable. Maybe it would take a century or so, but the blood might eventually assert itself and reaffirm the identity of the Malfoy line as true, dark and strong. I hope that might be the case. I suppose it is a little premature to be worrying about this, as I still have no firm plan for impregnation, but I at least needed to consider the possibility that Father would prefer me to allow our line to end honourably and true to itself. That is ridiculous; I see that now I have thought it through. We are strength and power, we are unashamed and unforgiving, and we are unbroken. This has been my mantra for the past few nights. In the dark before sleep, in the haze between sleep, in the surety of sleep itself, always. I can't remember a time when I didn't know these words. Unbroken. I am a Malfoy, in fact now that my Father is gone, I am Malfoy itself, and I am unbroken. I am all these things, but I'm also a Slytherin, and part of being a Slytherin is survival. Malfoy has always been in Slytherin, I have to believe Malfoy always will be in Slytherin, and that the survival of the Malfoy line is not a betrayal of it. My descendants will find their way back to Slytherin, and that in turn must mean they will find their way to the meaning of Malfoy even without the lessons of my childhood.

I bet if Father were still alive, I'd know instantly whether to attempt escape or not. I probably wouldn't even have to think about it. I would just know, in the same way I know my name. Sometimes I wonder, I worry, how something so fundamental can change, and what else can change. It is incomprehensible to me, this sudden lack of knowledge. What if this is just the beginning? The person I was would just know what to do. I don't. What if the same thing can happen to more and more of my life, more and more of me, more and more of my personality? Maybe one day I will wake up, and on top of not knowing whether to escape or not, I won't know whether to claim Imperious or not. At the moment it seems obvious. Even my Father claimed Imperious. But what if it's not always obvious? What if everything just dissolves gradually, and eventually I get to the stage where I won't know whether I prefer broccoli or aubergine? What do I do if eventually the phrase "in the same way I know my name" becomes meaningless? Because in the same way that I've lost the bit of me that knows whether to escape or not, maybe I'll lose the bit of me that recognises my own name. I'll end up another vegetable in a bed down from Lockhart, and I won't even know to be annoyed about it. This is all ridiculous, and the most pointless hypothetical scenario I've ever produced to terrify myself. I'm getting the Kiss before any of this can happen. But, by Moloch, it's already started. A Malfoy would never be terrified. I probably got hit by a brain-wasting hex during that last battle, or something.

Maybe I should keep a list. A list of things that I'm forgetting how to do, how to be. As I forget them, I can write them down, so I at least know that it matters that I'm forgetting them. Until I forget to keep the list that is. Maybe it's pointless and I shouldn't bother. Maybe.

I don't feel insane.

The Weasleys came to collect me shortly after I had changed into the clothes the nurse brought. I had to leave my old clothes behind; I think they've probably been burned. I didn't realise I would be staying with the Weasleys. Perhaps I'm not being overlooked by the aurors after all, the Weasleys probably requested custody of me to exact their own form of justice. Dumbledore might have mentioned it yesterday, but I really don't remember. I had to make a snap decision as to whether to meet their eyes or not. I decided not, I hope I got it right. It was just the mother and what I think is the eldest son, but I decided that in the interest of self-preservation that it was wisest not to meet their eyes and to keep my head bowed. I can show any amount of humility necessary in order to survive, and not be ashamed of that. The feud between our families goes back to 1546 at least, and I know they lost a son that worked at the Ministry back in February during the attack there. It's very possible that one or more of them may have fallen in the most recent battle as well, so it would probably not pay to antagonise them right now. Especially as to all intents and purposes they just won.

They performed a temporary binding charm on us so that we could floo as one, as if I would attempt to escape that way. Things may be chaotic at the moment, but I do believe they'd be able to find someone to trace the journey before I could get very far. Their house, they call it The Burrow, is large and rambling. Parts of it look quite old, but it is so jumbled that it is hard to pick out anything specific. Although they seem to have quite extensive dungeons, I have been placed in what I must assume is the dead son's room. They must be very confident about their wards, or perhaps they want me close by for convenience for when they start whatever it is they have decided to do with me. I would have used the dungeons. There are some traditions that are there for a reason. The room is a little bit dusty, but basically clean, albeit rather bare. They must have moved all family belongings out quite a while ago because this room seems to have been left untouched for quite some time. There's no fireplace, and a lock on the door, but there is a window. There are no bars upon it, that would be too crude for even these muggle-lovers, but I assume they must have placed some preventative measures on it. I have spent quite some time sitting on the window ledge, just looking at the surrounding countryside and weather. I'm surprised such an emotional family can live here, I'm sure they must find it quite depressing, even the sky seems to be exhausted. I always pictured them living somewhere shockingly rococo. My Father would be furious if he could see me here. I will look into breaking whatever wards they have upon the window later, whether I decide to attempt to escape or not.

***

4th June 1998

I heard Harry Potter arrive last night. Kind of hard to mistake him, he was really very loud. At least I know more about what's going on now. He was predictably less than pleased at my presence at the Burrow. He still seems to know who I am, even if parts of me are no longer sure. This is a good thing; something of me was always defined through Potter as directed by my Father. Apparently, the youngest Weasley and the father are still at St. Mungo's and things are very much in the balance, at least for the father. I'm somewhat relieved neither of them has died yet, so there is still a chance that I may be left in peace until a Kiss can be arranged, or a trial followed by a Kiss. Ron was with him; he seemed to agree with me that I should be in the dungeons.

One of the twins put some food through my door this morning, along with a jug of water and a glass. I have drunk the water, but have decided to leave the food. I have gone for far longer without, and it may be poisoned. Of course, if they really wanted to poison me I wouldn't be able to stop them, but Father would be furious if I allowed them to think I was stupid enough to be tricked into eating poison.

The window is presenting a problem. There is certainly a magical barrier of some kind in use on it, and I have the sneaking suspicion that it may be nothing more than a simple child-safety charm. If I had any further to fall, this would be it, the humiliation of being held prisoner by nothing more than something used to keep snotty Weasley toddlers from being stupid enough to climb out the window. It is, however, exceptionally effective, and, I must grudgingly admit, holds a resourceful kind of cleverness. I would say far too clever for any Gryffindor, but I suppose it must have been one of them, as I can't imagine that there would be anyone from any of the other houses in residence here. I am beginning to think I was being slightly over-ambitious in believing I might be able to escape. There is no way I can remove the barrier charm without my wand, and that was taken from my possession almost as soon as I came into custody, right after they identified me. Hah, it's probably been snapped by now. My best bet is probably to try to convince them I was truly under Imperius, or that I've had a complete change of heart. Still haven't decided if I should bother at all or not.

Potter is staying here with the Weasleys, and it's strange to think he's just down the hall from me. The cause of the Dark Lord's fall, the key to everything, and he's just asleep and so close. So close, and yet it doesn't matter any more. I wonder if he'll want to see me, want to talk to me and hurt me. Father would be furious with me if he didn't want to. Maybe the Gryffindor's had his fill of revenge, but he's still Potter, surely, and he'll want people punished. I suppose it's his right, because in the end he did win.

I won't sleep tonight. I don't think Father would like it if I let my guard down with Potter asleep down the hall. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to have my guard up against, but I'm sure that on principle at least, he wouldn't have liked it.

***

5th June 1998

The Twin returned early this morning and took back the plate and jug, frowning at the untouched, and now cold and unappetising meal. He returned with a refilled jug, which he placed next to the door as before. I kept my eyes on the floorboards always, as taught, but I saw him glance twice at the still made bed, and then at me on the floor against the wall by the window, where I had been sitting without much alteration since being shown to this room. He asked me if I would like some breakfast, to which I did not reply. If they want to give me breakfast, they will, and there is no point in me expressing a desire for some. I probably wouldn't have eaten food from them anyway, as previously decided, had events not transpired as they did.

The Twin then indicated to me to collect the bucket I had been using as a lavatory, and escorted me to the bathroom. I emptied it down the toilet and swilled it out using the shower extension in the bath as instructed, and then, after rummaging around in the cupboard under the sink for a bit, he squirted some saniteze in it. It's still a disgusting way to have to live, but I guess it's hygienic. That's more than could be said for the way any of the aurors caught by our side were kept. Far, far more. Father always said they were all too squeamish ever to get anything real done, but maybe I shouldn't tempt fate by making that judgement quite yet.

I was left in my room again after that, but I heard quite a bit of talking out the window. The Weasley kitchen would seem to be, if not directly beneath my window, then near enough, as I can hear some of the conversations quite clearly. Of course, as soon as the people walk away from what I assume is the kitchen window all I can here is a vague sort of muffled mumbling, but I have still learned quite a bit from this source. The Twin that has been dealing with me is Fred, he seems to have been assigned gaoler duty for the meantime, and I think there is someone else being held here. That might have potential, but it sounds more annoying than anything else. Yet another factor to be considered in decisions. They believe the Dark Lord is gone for good, and that they really got all the Death Eaters. I'm inclined to agree with their opinion, as I also was there to see what they are calling the Final Battle. I saw Wormtail get captured myself, and he had particular advantages that would have helped him escape, so I doubt anyone else would have managed it. There would seem to be little hope in escape, and even if anyone had survived, I would not be pig-ignorant enough to expect rescue. There was more inane chatter, but nothing of significance. A little mention of me, but they don't appear to have any specific plans for my imminent future. I'm not sure if this should be counted as positive or not, it may mean they had already pre-determined the fate and path of any captured, but they may just be waiting to see what happens to the two of their family that are still hospitalised.

I think they then left to visit those two, as the house went far quieter than it would have been with the whole Weasley flock within. There were still some moving around, and I could hear a faint sobbing coming from the room adjacent, but other than that there was nothing. To be able to hear such sobbing is awfully clichéd, but I suppose the concept of some apocalyptic-styled battle should also earn that label. Especially as the orphaned underling on the side of "light" managed to "save the day." I assume the person crying to be my fellow captive, of which I am, of course, contemptuous, although I suppose it is only to be expected. I can hardly imagine what Father's reaction would be if I allowed myself to get into such a state. Once again I am surprised we're not in the dungeons. It really would be far more practical, and I must imagine that with their typical Gryffindor stupidity they simply do not realise the unnecessary risk they are exposing themselves to. If I was planning to escape, which I suppose I might end up doing at some point, the possibilities would increase considerably with the knowledge of and the ability to communicate with another prisoner. Plus there is that plucky morale thing people are always going on about. Maybe it doesn't matter so much after all, as I have already determined that physical attempts of escape should be abandoned, but there is always the possibility of selling out this ally to gain favour. It is a shame that there really are no Death Eaters on the outside to provide information on, as my betrayal of them would surely be an invaluable bargaining tool for some form of clemency.

When the family returned, Fred brought me some basic lunch, just some bread and cheese. He frowned at me a little, but I remained still, and he left. I returned to clearing my mind to blank absence of thought, leaving the food once more, and stupidly expecting nothing more of the day. It was not an hour later, however, when Fred returned. He picked the plate up, and told me it wasn't poisoned, as if it were that simple. I suppose it might be for a Gryffindor. I never responded to Dumbledore, and I wasn't about to start talking over this.

He tried again, with "Malfoy, you need to eat. You should eat, it's not poisoned," he repeated. He left again, and returned shortly after with his twin and mother. A family trip to survey the prisoner, feeding time at the zoo. They really could have got far more out of this experience if they'd put me in the dungeons.

"Malfoy, you prat, stop pissing about and eat the damn food." This was the other twin, that I had picked up was called George. He repeated what his brother had already told me, "It's not poisoned."

I grew surer and surer in my mind that Father would not want me to eat this food. Even if it was not poisoned, which I suppose it probably wasn't due to their idiotic sense of honour and the vehemence of their protestations; it was a means of control. I should give up control piece by piece, and only after having it wrenched from me. I would not allow them to control me through the provision, or lack thereof, of food. Father would be furious, and I will not allow it. I will need to reconsider this viewpoint more thoroughly in the near-future, as it may not be very practical long-term, but my convictions are appropriate at this time, especially as I do not anticipate having much of a "long-term" to take into consideration.

Or, at least the convictions were appropriate, until damn Ron Weasley and bloody Harry Potter decided to pass through the hall outside my room and pile in on the situation. By this time, Mrs. Weasley had approached me tentatively, and was speaking softly at me, calling me by my first name, telling me I should eat. I am not sure of anything exact she may have been saying, as I had distanced myself in order not to provide an opening under such close examination. It must have been fairly ludicrous however, as once the situation was explained to Ron and Potter, the room fell grudgingly silent.

I thought they would leave me then. I thought maybe they would let it go. Father would be furious at my lack of accurate judgement.

Suddenly Potter was in front of my small crowd, gaze narrowed in his not insignificant fury, the violence of his emotion directed at me. He is still the same old Potter, familiar wrath backing up his habitual righteousness, and maybe I'm grateful to see something that's still the same, something that still makes sense. Predictable Potter, typically igniting over whatever little incident happens to have nothing to do with him. But with all that considerable intensity focused upon you, it is impossible to forget that this is the individual that brought down the Dark Lord. Twice.

"Malfoy. The food's not poisoned. You will eat the food now. You will eat this food, and any other that is brought to you." He stopped then, awaiting any sign that I'd even heard, of which I gave him none. He balled his fists, his voice raised: "I swear, Malfoy, I swear, if you don't do as I say and eat that food right now, I swear by -"

I gave him no reason to continue, and he stood there silent whilst the Weasleys stared agape at me cramming the bread into mouth. I was crouched over the plate after having scampered across the floor like some kind of animal, like something Azkaban had spat out after 40 years of a life sentence. Harry turned and led the Weasleys gravely out, and Fred locked the door behind them.

Father would be furious, of course, but he understood about survival. You don't let your gaolers threaten you like that unless you absolutely have to. It just means that when they find something that actually matters to them, they have to make worse threats than they have previously made. Then when you don't comply, they have to carry out the worse threats that you pushed them into making. All in all, it's better not to let your captors make threats over what they believe to be smaller issues. I don't think they realise to what extent food can be used as leverage on a prisoner. I'm sure they'd deduce its significance, however, once they worked out what they really wanted from me. Father would be furious that I lost, but he'd understand. No forgiveness, but an understanding. I lost, but it's all just damage limitation.

I spent the rest of the day throwing up in my bucket. I didn't do this deliberately, although I suppose I might have done so had I needed to, considering the circumstances. There probably wouldn't have been much point, however, as that battle had already been lost. I hadn't eaten for what I think must be several days, and it must have been too much too fast, so it was a redundant decision to have to make. I spent the rest of the day throwing up in my bucket, and followed that with some dry-heaving. My throat is sore, but I can't drink the water, as I know it will make me nauseous again. It's all just damage limitation.

***

6th June 1998

This morning was really very similar to yesterday morning. Fred brought me some more food and some fresh water, and I considered my position. I took a couple of mouthfuls, crumbled some of the rest into the fireplace ashes, and left what remained. Hopefully that will be enough to prevent any more untoward dramatics such as occurred yesterday. When he came back he frowned as before at the food I'd left on the plate, but made no remark. He seemed angrier when he saw my vomit in the bucket, and led me off to empty and clean it rather roughly. I think he was going to say something as he put me back in my room, had there not been a big bustle of activity in the kitchen all of a sudden. I think Mr. Weasley and the youngest are back, albeit probably very much the worse for several thousand watts of malicious magical power. I wonder if any of the curses were mine. If they had died, my captors would no doubt have been far more vengeful, but at least they wouldn't have known who exactly did the casting.

I've been here three whole days now, and there still doesn't seem to be any indication of any firm plans concerning me. I suppose things must still be fairly chaotic. I can still hear the crying intermittently from the next room. There has been no crusading Potter in there raising his voice, however, so I must assume that whoever it is has been behaving with all appropriate docility. To be fair to myself, I don't believe I have been particularly troublesome. I still have some decisions to make, and until I do so I must leave as many options open as possible. The person crying sounds rather broken. I know the person must now know that I am here too, but I suppose that can offer little hope. They really do sound very broken, and I've heard enough people break over the years to allow me of all people to recognise the subtleties within the vocal evidence of such a state. Everyone breaks a little differently, but the important and significant aspects of the sound are always the same. I wonder if Potter realises what he's done.

I worry that I might break. I don't understand how I possibly could, but then as I mentioned before, I don't understand how I could be as unsure about things as I am now either. Father would be furious if he knew I wondered if I could break. There should be no uncertainty in me; Malfoys remain ever unbroken. And yet, I wonder what I'd sound like, what obscure part of my personality would surface in the noise to give those little subtleties and discrepancies. I try to think of what it would take to break me, and I can think of nothing. What would I be thinking? What does a broken person think of? Is it all doom and despair, which is what they inevitably vocalise in some form? Or is it some linear version of gibberish that only makes sense to the individual? Some people talk in nonsense once they've been broken, but you can always hear the underlying despair. I never thought of it before, but now I'm curious as to whether they're thinking the despair and it comes out as nonsense, or if they're thinking nonsense and the despair just seeps through as an overwhelming background emotion. I don't know which would be worse. I would like to think that there's a difference between simply being broken and lunacy. If there is, I hope that wouldn't mean that I'd completely lose my mind due to an inability to be broken.

I wonder if they'll try. I wonder if I should try to stop them. It would be an ironic oversight on my part, if the thing that broke me was the wrenching indecision as to whether I should try to save myself from being broken.

I think the Weasleys forgot about me after Fred locked me back in my room. Too busy and weak tending to their injured, I suppose. There were no more meals brought to me, and nobody came to talk at me, which I contemplated being grateful for. Maybe they decided there was no point, as they considered me unlikely to eat the food anyway. However, I really think they just forgot. I'll probably have to get a couple of hours sleep tonight; I don't think I'll be able to help it much. I suppose it is not so bad, as they are preoccupied enough to be disregarded a little. As well as not wanting me to let my guard down, Father would not want me to needlessly weaken myself and in turn my position. It's a matter of balancing these two necessities, and it is getting to a point where my judgement will soon be seriously impaired if I do not get some sleep soon. I'll myself against the wall in order to make sure I don't rest too deeply, but there is little else I can do in my current predicament of hostile incarceration.

***

7th June 1998

I drifted throughout the night, maintaining a beneficial haze for most of this time. I think some new people arrived at some point. I never bothered to keep track of all the countless Weasleys, but surely this must be all of them by now. Father always said it was important to keep the wizarding community's numbers up, but I'm sure this is an unnecessary and mocking extreme to which to take that concept. Maybe it's a conspiracy. Obviously not a very good one.

I awoke from a deeper sleep than I had intended to allow myself as the door was opened, but I don't think Fred noticed my lapse. The same routine as had passed the last two mornings was followed, and once again I ate a little of the food, but could not bring myself to eat it all. There was a slight change in events as after cleaning out my bucket I was told to disrobe and wash standing in the bath. I was slightly concerned that this might be the beginning of whatever form of retribution they had determined would be appropriate, but by the slightly bored tone of Fred's voice I thought it unlikely. There really would have been no point in protesting anyway, had this been their intention. I suppose it might have been at that point, but is undoubtedly now an irrelevance. I had no reason to object to bathing in front of someone, other than the fact that the someone was a Weasley, and indeed he spent the whole time reading some year-old Quidditch magazine whilst sitting on the toilet lid. Potter managed to walk in completely oblivious and thoroughly sleep-mussed, in order, I presume, to clean his teeth, but Fred said I wouldn't be long, and so he left. I was handed some clean(er) clothes to wear, and returned to my room.

It occurred to me when I thought about it later, that I hadn't heard any crying from the next room for a while, but at the time I thought nothing of it. That was slack of me; I should have been paying closer attention to those details, and fully processing the possible meanings of them. Shortly after Fred left me alone, there was a loud shout from the other room that sounded very much like Fred, and that was shortly followed by the muffled thump of someone hitting the floor. I paid attention then, for sure, and it turned out that my snivelling fellow captive was in fact Mr. Zabini. He threw open the door in a thoroughly unnecessarily melodramatic style, brandishing what I assume must have been Fred's wand. I stayed still for a beat, just paused to study his face, which was a sadly comic mix of triumph and panic. Broken indeed, but extremely unprofessionally. It struck me then, just how truly ridiculous the situation was. To be held prisoner by the Weasleys was surreal enough in itself, but to be 'rescued' by Mr. Zabini placed the experience on a whole new level of chimera. One of those quick flashes of thought that go through one's mind at the most inappropriate of moments hit me then, and in desperation I thought perhaps this was some kind of strange hallucination, possibly a test from my father. But then I decided that this was most certainly not the hallucination of any Malfoy, which meant that it had to belong to the subconscious of Mr. Zabini. Which made far more sense. Or at least it did at the time.

I was brought forth from my ruminations without ceremony as Mr. Zabini grabbed my wrist and attempted to drag me out the door with him. I swiftly dispossessed him of whatever notion could possibly have convinced him that this action was appropriate by levelling a fully arched eyebrow at him, and my wrist was released. He started babbling at this point, about escape, about what could happen if we got free. Also about what could happen if we didn't get free. I ignored him for the most part, and looked out my door into the hallway. Fred lay prone in the entrance of the room next to mine, the glass jug used to knock him out shattered about his slightly bloodied head. He'd live, and it was probably best to leave it that way due to the improbability of this misguided bid for freedom succeeding. Mr. Zabini was clearly not going to get us anywhere other than placed under tighter security. A thinker to be sure, enough of one to get himself into significant trouble, but clearly lacking the sufficient thought resources to get him out of it again. Now that I can think about it freely, it is truly a miracle Blaise made it into Slytherin with that idiot as a relative.

I stopped to consider our situation. We couldn't fight our way out. Not with one wand between the two of us and Potter in the house. We couldn't apparate. After the intense magical activity produced across the country in the last days of fighting the locational magic fields would be completely unpredictable, and so we'd likely end up splinched either side of the channel. We could attempt to floo, if we could get to a fireplace, but the Weasleys probably only had one fireplace networked, and that would be the one I came in by in the kitchen, where there always seemed to be at least one person doing something or other. I decided our best bet was to try to make a run for it physically from the front door. The Weasleys didn't seem to use their front door much as all their comings and goings seemed to be through the back, the approach to which my room overlooked. The hall seemed abandoned, and I had noticed on my way in that the front door was immediately opposite the main stairs, so if we could get out that way without being noticed we would maybe stand some kind of chance. Not any chance I'd place money upon, and certainly not a chance I would ordinarily place my life upon, but it occurred to me that my life could really only be considered of minimal value to anyone I could think of, curtailed as it was shortly due to be.

Mr. Zabini quietened a little as I lead us expediently down the shabby landing, and across to the top of the stairs. I thought about casting furtive glances at the closed doors, and about waiting nervously for them to open as we passed, but that seemed a task best left to Mr. Zabini. I was thinking, as I walked down the stairs with as much of the malevolent serenity of a Malfoy as was practical, that I had never actually come to a decision as to whether I should attempt escape or not. It would seem that Mr. Zabini managed to make the decision for the both of us, and I suppose I shouldn't complain.

We made it to the front door. We walked out the front door.

I stared up at an unfettered blue sky set with streaks of tortured grey, and broke out into a run with Mr. Zabini beside me. The Weasleys' front garden was overrun, which was only to be expected considering their political positions during the last nine months of open war. It was somewhat rambling and fairy-book, and I was struck by the overwhelming multitude of plants sprawling across what once might have been a path, or possibly the lawn.

We reached the gate, and I risked an anxious glance back at the aesthetically challenged residence. I pushed through the gate - and broke into a sprint down the lane as noise erupted behind me. I frowned as I heard it. Not an alarm, no, but... a doorbell? I had encountered the muggle concept whilst on raids as a Death Eater. Father always considered it a matter of style to humour their ludicrous customs and ring the doorbell before slaughtering the inhabitants. Trust the Weasleys to adopt such a purely muggle eccentricity. Trust the Weasleys to get it entirely wrong and to place the damn thing on the gate rather than the door. Not that it would have made much difference to the escape attempt had they correctly applied the specifics.

We ran along the quiet country road and broke up its peace with our ragged footsteps. I hoped we were heading towards some kind of forest we could hide in, or maybe an abandoned house, which were not uncommon in these troubled times. In truth, I had no idea to where we were fleeing, but it wasn't long until we heard the sounds of our pursuers, and the issue became more immediate.

I spotted a small patch of trees off to the left of the road, and that seemed as good a chance as any, so I grabbed Zabini by the collar and pulled him into the field to make for the copse. We stumbled on the rough neglected earth, and it was hard running in the mud until we made the trees. There the earth was more mulch, and last year's dead leaves squelched and flicked yet more mud, but all I could hear was our laboured breathing along with the eerie silence that accompanies the pursued. I wonder if it's the same for muggles, or if it's peculiar to magic folk. Somehow I doubt it. I could not tell if we'd managed to lose Potter and/or the Weasleys, but I looked around to find somewhere to hide, seemingly in vain until I found a small ditch on the side of the trees away from the road. I pulled Zabini down into the dark and dank filth, and we waited.

I always hate the waiting.

Maybe I should learn to like it, as it means the game is not yet up, but I doubt I'll ever learn to appreciate it properly. Father always said I needed to learn to savour the process more. As it was, we didn't have to wait long. Soon there were voices, Potter, Fred, and one of the older Weasleys, closing in on us angrily. Zabini, rather predictably I suppose, panicked, and scampered off down the ditch to where there was more undergrowth at one end. I followed, wondering how best to sell the idiot out, but I think they heard our movement, and their noises started getting louder quicker. My fellow fugitive of all but 15 minutes, stopped suddenly and it took his wide eyes streaked with tears for me to realise that he had found something new to inspire his terror.

There was a plant, writhing, all around us, and it was about his arms and legs, mine too by the time I noticed anything was wrong. Zabini still held the wand, and in his panic shot off a few curses whilst flailing fiercely, but to no avail. The vine simply fizzled a bit where the curses hit, possibly glowed slight, although it was difficult to tell, and seemingly gripped still tighter. He was babbling still in between gasping for breath against the twine tightening around his neck and tossing himself physically against his restraints. I was doing much the same in trying to fight the weed off, but was also having little success.

Zabini had been ahead of me, and was further into the plant before he realised what was happening, so he lost the fight first. His movements stilled and he was gone.

It was over, then, I thought. The Malfoy line would end here, today. I looked at the tangle of leaves and stem beneath which I knew there was something lifeless, and I knew that I was next. I felt a little woozy, and I think the plant must have possessed a mild toxin, for the edges of all the shapes seemed slightly blurred, but the details of the foreground were strangely prominent. I gave up fighting the plant, and waited.

I hate the waiting.

It seemed to take forever, and the plant seemed to still. But that may have been the effects of the toxin leading me to think such. Potter appeared at the edge of my vision, moving with terrifying speed between endless pauses. He said something, then there was heat, and then there was no more of the plant.

I looked up at Potter, really looked, and he was the first person I had looked at the eyes of since our defeat. Maybe there's a difference between meeting someone's eyes and looking at a person's eyes, but there didn't seem enough of me to meet his eyes then, so I think I can only have been looking and not meeting them. The plant had retreated, and Zabini's body was revealed a little way away from me. Potter looked over at it, I looked over at it and Ron and the other Weasley appeared on the scene, and they looked over at it. Fred's wand was still pressed in the still-warm hand.

I scrambled over to it and seized it in what felt like perfectly steady hands, and yet in all likelihood were anything but. I forced myself to stand, and the world span, but I turned anyway to face Potter. It felt like screaming, just to hear, every bit of air hurling into some focal point just beyond my ears. Strange how you can close your eyes, but not your ears. I don't remember looking away from his face, so I suppose I must have blinked, because then I was looking down at the loosely held wand. 12 inches or so of a fairly light wood with a magical core of Merlin only knows. It seemed heavy in my palm, and grounding, like I could feel it reaching down through my feet to the solidity beneath them, that only seemed entirely definite now I was focussing on Fred's wand.

This was my way to go down fighting, to take one last shot at the downfall of the Dark Lord. I thought of the curses I knew. It seemed sickeningly un-Slytherin to fight until the end in this way, but it seemed possible Father would have preferred it. At least it would be better than the Kiss.

I drew myself out of my thoughts to examine the wand again. I really quite liked this wand.

A fight and the end. The only way this ill-conceived escape attempt could have ended. The same way it started, and the same way all of this started. I don't think I can even remember that, how it all began. Most of the time I don't think I can even remember what it is I'm supposed to know the beginning of.

I looked at the wand, and I knew it was the end. Potter walked closer, I handed the wand over.

I didn't know what Father would have wanted me to do, and he wasn't there to tell me. If he'd been there, he wouldn't have needed to tell me. I didn't know what I was doing, so I handed the wand over, and let the end be the end.

Potter pocketed the wand, cast a restraining charm on my wrists, and marched me back to the Burrow.

Posted by Missiedith at April 3, 2004 12:01 AM | TrackBack